


Ride It Down and Start Again

by araneae_cobalti



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider is a Good Parent, F/M, davris - Freeform, gonna update tags as i go!, ironies in the fire - Freeform, we8comics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21756001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/araneae_cobalti/pseuds/araneae_cobalti
Summary: in which dave strider almost dies on a skateboard and gets himself into the biggest possible mess in the process. as always, this aint beta'd!
Relationships: Vriska Serket/Dave Strider
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

With a resounding “FUCK!”, you lose all semblance of control of your shit and your board rockets out from under your feet and soars into the great beyond--i.e. some poor, undeserving mannequin child's face--leaving you in the dust as you pitch backward and hit the ground _hard,_ your sweet, unprotected noggin just barely missing the ground; your bony ass elbows and bony ass just barely save you from cracking your head open on dirty mall carpet--if you count bruising your tailbone and almost breaking your arms a ‘save’. As you struggle to right yourself, you realize, with a start, that you are not alone.  
  
Squatting almost behind one of the escalators, there's a girl, and she's the exact definition of ‘deer in the headlights’. You lock eyes with her (noting, with vague interest that they’re _different_ ) from behind skewed shades for the _ghost_ of a moment. Then she _bolts._ And holy hell, is she fast--she books it like a bat out of hell, and quite honestly, it sorta makes you wanna hi-tail it outta here, too. What the hell scared her like that? Was it just you, being the major fucking dipshit that you are, or was she afraid that the loud noise would attract the wrong kind of attention? Fuck, now _you're_ paranoid. Tucking tail and picking up your board (righting the poor little shit you K.O.ed earlier), you make to beat a hasty retreat as well, but. Honestly, you want to check out what exactly it was she was doing over there before you wiped out.

You’re surprised--and admittedly, impressed--when you stumble upon what is probably this era’s Mona Lisa, but in, like, spraypaint and on the side of a dilapidated escalator. It’s incredibly saturated and would probably hurt your eyes if you weren’t still wearing your sunglasses indoors, but you love it all the more for it. From what you can tell, it’s a scenic view of a large house atop a mesa, but that’s really the only solid part of the piece you understand. The rest of it morphs into suns, to diamonds, to spiders and webs and shit that, admittedly, makes a shiver run down your spine. It feels… personal. So why the hell is she doing it here, where anyone can come and tag over it? Frankly, answering that one question left you with so many more, and the questions nagged as you skated home, nagged as you ate a bag of stale Doritos for dinner, and nagged as you struggled to fall asleep that night.

You're not really sure what you were expecting, but you don't see her the next few times you go to the mall--every day, now, of course--and it's a bit discouraging, but you're holding out hope. You know _you_ wouldn't give up a spot as sick (or as unmonitored) as this over a little run-in with another wannabe delinquent, let alone something that didn't even turn into a fight. You weren't even the worst she could've run into, either--you were just some idiot kid dicking around on a skateboard. But now you're getting distracted. You've come back every day for a week, hoping to see her, but there's basically no sign of her at all. 

Well, that is until you noticed her art had been updated in between visits. It sort of made sense, her going out of her way to avoid you, but now you're kinda mad. Here you are, curiosity _genuinely_ piqued, and she's just gonna ghost you like that? Nah, that's not how this is supposed to play out. You’ve been comin’ out of your damn way for almost week and by gumption, you’re going to have something to fucking show for it before the week is out. The problem is, you’re… not really sure how to do that.

Board tucked under your arm, you’ve taken to pacing in front of the escalators, in front of her mural, as you ponder the situation. The main issue is that you know, like, literally fuck-all about her. Art can only tell you so much about a person, especially something as abstract as all this; you can’t really work off of ‘vibes’, even if her vibes are admittedly pretty tight. At this point, it's hard not to admit that you're stuck, much as you don't want to. With a sigh and groan of frustration, you rake one hand through your hair and spin around to face the rest of the food court once more, letting your board down onto the ground. This is _really_ starting to get under your skin--and _that's_ getting under your skin, too. Why the hell does it matter so much? 

You step up and push off roughly, the rolling of the wheels beneath you only doing so much to soothe your frazzled nerves. What the hell are you trying to prove to this mystery girl, huh? That you're not some total chump and actually DO know how to handle a skateboard? Cool guys aren't supposed to care whether or not other people think they're cool-- _that's what makes them cool._ There's hardly anything else to prove edgewise, anyway. It's not like you're very good with a can of spraypaint, and you only saw her for, like, a _second_ at most. You're not _that_ desperate for friends, are you? Sure, most your other friends live further than you board can take you, but like, that's fine. You're fine. It's cool. _You're_ cool. She's probably cool too, not that you'll ever know, and it doesn't matter in the slightest that she was kinda cute and--

You're so caught up in your thoughts that you don't see the massive shadow of your hubris looming over you and ever closer, ready to swoop down and carry you away--and oh, God, does it. Seriously, you fly way higher off of your board this time, arms windmilling in panic before you crash down in an ungodly heap, your yelp echoing throughout what feels like the whole damn mall. The last fall was bad enough, but this one is just fucking shameful. Spilling because you got hung up on some fucking _girl_ you don't even know? Jesus Christ on a cross. You lay there for a minute, contemplating existence and your miniscule, insignificant place in the cosmos before you work up the will to roll over and look for your board and--

Oh no. Oh _fuck._ Ignoring the protests of your body, you scramble off of the floor and over to the escalators, not even worried about your stupid, shitty skateboard anymore. You're _far_ more fucking pressed by the huge gouge you've made in Mystery Girl's mural, a definitely noticeable swath of paint missing from one of the bigger spiders--no, no, you've gotta be realistic, that's probably the biggest fucking one there was. Your stomach feels like it's in the pits of Hell right now, and your palms start to sweat as you frantically wrack your brain for ways to fix this mess. Part of you just wants to up and leave, but panic-brain has you convinced that she'll know it was you and think you did it on purpose like some massive asshole, and you _really_ can't have that--

Jumping to your feet once more, you race to one of the further restrooms--the men's room by the old theater, the one you busted the lock to get into--to locate the one thing you can think of that might just save your ass. Dropping down to crawl under the door of the middle stall (yes, you know you can unlock it, but that's sort of exactly the opposite of the point), you groan in relief when you see that fat, King Sized Sharpie still sitting on the toilet paper dispenser where you left it. You come here when you're feeling particularly inspired or angsty to scribble on the walls, but you pay that absolutely zero mind as you wriggle back on out with your prize, all the way back to the food court and escalators.

You ponder what you should write that's going to make you sound as cool as possible without sounding like a douchebag--all the while worrying that she's going to pop up behind you and see what you've done and, worse yet, have a face to pin it to. Ultimately, simple is probably best, right? And then… yeah, that'll sell it. The Sharpie squeaks as you scribble out your meagre apology in an empty corner-- 'SORRY // I PROMISE I CAN BOARD // I.O.U.?' --and you hope she takes pity on your dumb ass. A little underhanded at the end there, sure, but… Fuck, you're curious! She won't be able to tell, will she? It's totally fine.

Having had enough stress and spills for one fucking day, you call it early and, after an embarrassing twenty minute search for your board, you head on out. Of course, not learning from _any_ of your mistakes, you're thinking about it the whole ride home, the whole walk up the stairs, and the whole way into the living room, where you crash on the futon. If Bro notices you're back any earlier than usual, he opts not to say anything, simply tossing you a Code Red, like he always does before _he_ retreats to the table to get back to whatever monstrosity he was sewing before you came in. You sip your Dew thoughtfully on the couch as the XBox sputters to life, mind whirring along with the sound of the disc drive. 

A few hours of gaming (and a hair ruffle to let you know that Bro's taking the futon back so he can sleep) later, you find yourself in bed, arms folded over your stomach, once more caught up in thought. You're not really ready to admit it to yourself yet, but you're… sort of excited to see what she writes back. _If_ she writes back, you realize with a frown. Well, you hope she does, because even if you don't get a cool new friend out of the deal, you'd sure feel like a jackass if you never got the chance to make amends. 

Eventually, you manage sleep, drifting off to dreams of swords and spiders and impossibly soft brown hair that slips through your fingers like silk. That's what you find lingering in your sleep-fogged brain as you crack one crusted eye open and stare at and right through the water stain on the ceiling, mind a million miles away.

You're so fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if you dont like bro strider being a reasonable human being (if not slightly inept parent) then this fic aint for you my friend

The next few days are… rough. As soon as you’d pushed that dream down into the deepest recesses of your mind to go live with Lil’ Cal (seriously, fuck that puppet), you immediately started rolling around in bed as you literally and figuratively wrestled with the idea of going straight back to the mall, and, ultimately, you end up chickening out. There’s plenty of good reasons, of course--the story you keep telling yourself is that it’s probably going to be a few days before she even shows up there, and there’s NO way in hell you want to risk seeing her again and looking desperate. Which you aren’t, obviously. Still, you’re itching to know if she’s written back, and it’s pretty much all you can do to stay distracted. Mixing, gaming, updating your shitty webcomic--you name it. You even go so far as to work on an essay not even due for like, another _month_ because what else are you supposed to do? And the real kicker? None of it is enough.  
  


After one whole agonizing, calculated week of self-inflicted torture, it’s finally time. You put a little extra spray in your hair, just in case she ends up showing up--but like, it’s really not that big of a deal, obviously. You’re not going out of your way at all, no sir. Not in the way you put on your now-clean Converse, not in the way you dug this belt out of the back of your closet, and _definitely_ not in the way you decide today is the day you’re going to start wearing the stupid corded bracelet you made when you were still in Boy Scouts. It’s a normal goddamn Tuesday afternoon, thank you very much--pay _no_ attention to that man behind the curtain. Bro, entirely out of pocket, arches one imperious brow at you over his sewing machine on your way out the door. The way you arch yours right back and press your lips thin earns you a silent shrug, which is all the dismissal you need to get the hell out of Dodge. Judgy bastard.  
  


The ride to the mall is simultaneously too short and too long; frankly, you’re not super sure that ride agitated or soothed your heart’s frantic beating. Still, as strenuous as this whole thing has been on your poor, feeble body, you’re not about to back down now. You check yourself as discreetly as possible in every reflective surface you pass on your way to the escalators (which is a lot, considering you deliberately came in the farthest possible entrance), paranoia and anxiety escalating with every step. You fist the marker in your pocket with a sweaty palm, pulling your board infinitesimally closer to your body as you hyperfocus on your stride. It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re cool. You round the final corner and--  
  


She’s… not there.  
  


You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, deflating like a sad balloon left over from a birthday party, like, months ago that you finally put out of its misery after finding it in the depths of your closet. Yeah, okay, you’re disappointed. There’s no two ways about that, not even in the lovely land of make-believe, where you’ve been vacationing as you lie to yourself about the tentative, budding crush you’ve got on a girl you don’t know from Eve. That being said, though, there’s definitely a degree of relief you’re feeling here, too, mainly because you have no clue what you’d say to her actual face and inevitably make a complete ass of yourself, so there’s that, right?  
  


Nursing the sting of disappointment and trying to tamp down the nerves that are already cropping back up, you trudge over to the escalator proper to see if you’ve even gotten a response. Your stomach twists before you can even make the big blue letters out, but they’re _there,_ and that’s honestly about all you can bring yourself to care about at the moment. You read--read again--and… laugh. It bubbles up out of your chest, nervous and relieved all at the same time.

  
‘YOU OWE ME A SLUSHIE AND A NEW CAN OF PAINT, “SK8R BOY”.’  
  


The silence breaks with a whoop, a holler, and the clatter of your board hitting the floor before the rumble of the wheels is all you can hear. It’s a legendary shred sesh, the likes of which you probably won’t see for a while--and especially not in front of _her_. You know better than to think your luck would let you do anything even remotely impressive in front of someone you’re, well, trying to impress. It’s only at the very end, as you’re about to pack up and head out that you realize you don’t know how or where to find her next. Showing up every day after seems a little desperate for your taste… And then it hits you. Oh, she’s smart. Fishing the Sharpie out of your pocket, you squat in front of your make-shift message board and scrawl out your return, contemplating it for a good few moments before you finally push the cap back on. Yeah, that’ll do.

  
‘FRIDAY // HERE // 5 PM?’   
  


The ride home goes all too quickly, to say the least.  
  


When you get home, though? You wish it had gone longer.  
  


“So. See who you were hopin’ to see, squirt?”  
  


You freeze. Your hand’s not even off the front door and Bro’s _already_ asking you questions? How the hell did he even know? Actually, scratch that, you know damn well how he knows but even the thought of acknowledging it (let alone _him_ acknowledging it) earns him a scowl, hoping to whoever's listening your cheeks aren’t going pink.  
  


“I dunno what you’re talking about. Going senile already, old man?”  
  


You hear an amused snort and you watch as he goes from vaguely disinterested to fully involved, slinging one arm over the back of the futon as he leans back to look at you, one of those smarmy fucking grins curling at one corner of his mouth.  
  


“Better watch it, kid. Would you _like_ me to list off all the reasons why you’re not as slick as you think you are? Or would you rather I spare your ego the trouble?”  
  


Your lips thin and you barely hold back the grimace threatening to take hold, but you don’t say anything. There’s nothing _to_ say. He’s right.  
  


“What, you think I wanna listen to you give me shit about it? I don’t think so, bro.”  
  


Okay, yeah, maybe you’re being a little defensive but… well, you’re not even sure the last time you even _had_ a crush on somebody. This isn’t familiar territory. And that’s not even to mention the fact that you and Bro aren’t exactly the most forthcoming with your emotions. Today seems to be a bit of an anomaly, though, because Bro has actually shut up for a second, thumbing at his chin in what seems to be thought. He’s probably just lulling you into a false sense of security while he winds up for a zinger and--  
  


“I won’t laugh. Swear.”  
  


You blink once, twice, and as soon as your brain catches up, you’re squinting at him behind your shades, analyzing the minutiae of his face and expression. He looks as passive as ever, which is fucking infuriating, but you’re maybe kind of sure that there’s... some sincerity there. Probably. You weigh the options--talking to him about this is all kinds of embarrassing, but… Well, you can’t say you’ve never wished he’d ask after you more. You worry sometimes, you know?

As you tip your head back and sigh, the answer is pretty clear, but it’s not as easy as that. Never is, is it?  
  


“If I beat you in Mario Kart, I don’t have to say shit. Deal?”  
  


It’s a calculated risk, honestly. You both know you’re both pretty good at this game, and you can practically hear the gears whirring in Bro’s head as he contemplates this fact. Yeah, he probably wants to reprimand you for being a little shit, but he understands what it _means_. This is the chance you’re giving him, and he’ll have to swallow his pride and take it if he really wants to know.

  
“Deal.”  
  


One Grand Prix later and you find yourself having to all but pry your fingers off of the controller, giving them a good stretch as you nurse your wounded ego. The two of you were neck and neck through the first three races, but the last one seemed to be stacked against you even from the start, and now you’re staring at the screen as Bowser cheers his victory, mocking you and all the hard goddamn work you and Dry Bones did. The room is otherwise silent, aside from the blood rushing in your ears as you desperately try to figure out how the hell to speak.  
  


“Y’don’t have to tell me, y’know.”  
  


Without even looking at him, you groan dramatically and flop back against the futon, carding a hand through your hair and mussing it up.   
  


“What, and have that ass-kicking go to complete waste?”

“If it’s that big of a deal, it’s that big of a deal.” Bro shrugs, but his voice betrays him--he wants to know, but he doesn’t wanna push you. The thought of him trying to ‘be the adult’ here is irritating, even if you _do_ appreciate it. Sorta.

“Oh, come on. Where the hell do you get off on bein’ reasonable, huh?”  
  


That earns you a snort and your frown quirks. Not that you want to smile. Uh-uh.  
  


“C’mon, kid. I know m’not the most responsible adult in the world, but that cuts deep.” He slaps a dramatic hand over his chest and leans back to look at you sideways from behind his glasses. “You’re not doin’ drugs, are you?”

“Pfft, what? With what money? No.”

“Hangin’ around with the wrong crowd?”

“Bro, you know I don’t have any friends. Ouch.”

“Then what’s the problem? You’re not gonna get in trouble, kid. It’s not that deep, promise.”  
  


It’s a simple enough sentiment, but something about it catches you off guard.  
  


“I dunno. I just… You’re judgy, man.”

“So it _was_ a person.”

“Well, _duh_. Who the hell am I dressing up for, you?”

“My achin’ heart,” he whines. There’s a beat. “Is it a boy?”  
  


Your cheeks flame and you jerk upright, shaking your head vehemently.  
  


“What? Bro, I-- No, no, it’s not!”

“I wouldn’t care if it was. Y’know, back when I was your age, there was this guy I--“

“Aw, Bro, stop! Stop! I don’t wanna know!” you splutter, shoving his shoulder. He laughs, _really_ laughs, and there’s just something about it that sets you right.

“It was a girl,” you sigh. “At the mall. I don’t know her name or anything-- _yet_. I made plans to meet up with her on Friday. I think. I haven’t really, uh… spoken to her. Yet!” For a moment, Bro looks confused, but as you explain, he slowly starts to nod.

“Alright, cool. Word of advice from your old man, or are you too cool for that?”  
  


You glance over at him, expression pinching. You’re not sure you can handle much more ribbing than this.   
  


“Yeah, sure. Couldn’t hurt, I guess.”

“All this?” He gestures at the lengths you went to today, and you stiffen, but he’s not sneering like you'd expected. “It’s a nice sentiment, but you gotta be honest with yourself. When you go an’ put on airs, they gotta come off eventually, don’t they?”  
  


Oh. Huh.  
  


“Now, that’s not t’say you shouldn’t put your best foot forward,” he drawls, waving his hand noncommittally. “But at the end of the day, you gotta ask yourself if this is something you’re willin’ to do _every_ time. Otherwise, you’re just tellin’ her you’re fakin’ it. Do you really want her to like you, or the version of you you thought she’d like the most?”  
  


You’re silent, stewing, when he finally hauls himself to his feet, having said his piece.  
  


“Don’t think about it too hard, Davey, you’ll go grey worryin’. You’ll be fine.” He ruffles your hair and as you swat at his hand, he pulls away to give you space, making his way back over to his sewing table. “‘Sides. Even if y’can’t win her over, you’ve still got me, don'tcha?” he chuckles.

“I don’t see how that’s supposed to be comforting,” you complain, making a face at him, but the small smile you shoot him says otherwise.   
  


You’re left thinking about it for the rest of the afternoon, and as you find yourself turning down for the night, you thumb at the bracelet you dug out of your dresser this morning. Who exactly _are_ you trying to be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not sure how, but i did it! this took forever and im So Sorry but.... its here, right? all that matters? no? anyway! im planning on a third chapter at Some Point, hopefully much sooner than this one, but as always, i make no promises! i also didnt intend for this to be this much longer than the previous chapter but i just love writing wholesome interactions between bro and dave! also please let me know if my formatting is trash, there was just.... so much dialogue in this and i dont really know how to space it and have it look good LMAO


End file.
